What The Doves Said The Director
Book Four
By Mojdeh Marashi
Copyright 2011 Mojdeh Marashi
Published by Mojdeh Marashi at Smashwords
Fourth Story In "What The Doves Said" Series
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
What The Doves Said
The Director
Notes
About The Author
The Director
I am sitting on the gray wool sofa with my arm resting on the handle, sipping a cup of green tea infused with fresh mint leaves, hoping it settles my stomach. I’m watching Iranian movies with English subtitles, which is quite an experience.
We have found an Indi video store nearby that rents out Iranian movies, which have become popular over the years and therefore available even here in the States. Iranian directors such as Kiarostami, Makhmalbaf, and Panahi are invited regularly to Cannes and other International film festivals where they receive warm welcomes. Movie buffs crowd the local screenings of Iranian movies at alternative theaters and gather at the nearby coffee shops afterwards to discuss the films. Both the movies and the directors enjoy even more fame if they are banned from attending international festivals by the Iranian government. I am in awe of non-Iranian fans for understanding these complex, and often depressing movies, heavily coded with references to the Persian culture and history.
The movie I’ve rented today is about the life of an Iranian family post the 1979 Revolution, a charged subject. Listening to the dialog and reading the subtitles at the same time bothers me. Since I can’t hide the subtitles, I experiment with muting the TV but this proves to be more annoying. Translations are never quite the same as the original, especially when the information, the movie dialog in this case, is available in the original language. I un-mute the TV and try not to read the subtitles, which is difficult at first but eventually I master the art of ignoring the text.
Following the dialog in Persian seems adequate for a while but then the movie experience feels incomplete without the English subtitles and I catch myself stealing glances at the English words. It is as if for the movie to make sense to me it too has to be a hybrid, just like me.
This particular movie interests me more since, unlike the majority I have watched previously, it does not feature the least fortunate of Iranians; instead it is about the lives of the upper middle class, so hopefully it will be a bit less depressing. I have been looking forward to watching this movie also because I know the director, Bahman F., from my childhood. His parents and mine were very close friends. In fact his mom, Mrs. F., my mom, and their other friend, Mrs. J, were inseparable. Additionally, Bahman was my Mom’s favorite so I had heard many stories about him from Mom. I am much younger than Bahman but I remember him well, mainly from his summer vacations in Tehran when he came back home from studying abroad.
In one scene the main character, a man in his late forties, is visiting his mother. The camera pans slowly across the hallway to reveal an old, but well-kept house with walls adorned with old pictures, the kind that have a lot of real silver in them, making them look rich and alive. Then I notice that a few pictures look familiar to me. I only have to rewind once to recognize my parents among the people in the pictures on the wall. These photos were taken years before I was born when my parents and their friends were young. I have the exact duplicates.
One shows Bahman and his younger brothers with their parents and my parents on a ski trip. My mom is in the foreground, lying on the snow as if it was grass. The photo is in black and white but I recognize her beautiful burgundy coat with the fur collar. Mom has left the coat open and I can see that underneath the heavy coat she is not dressed warmly. “Like mother, like daughter”, I hear myself as I am reminded of my own love for the snow.
I grew up in Tehran enjoying a true four seasons. Unlike in California, we put away our summer clothing and brought the warm ones out of storage as fall and winter approached. We also enjoyed breaks here and there as the schools closed because of heavy snow. Our house was near Davoodieh Hills, which back then were not flattened and developed into new housing yet and the soft slopes were ideal as our snowy playground.
“Oh my! Come in, come in!” Mom almost screams as she tries to pull me inside the house, her face turned completely pale.
I am so cold my teeth are chattering.
“I told you not to stay too long outside. You are freezing!” she says as she helps me upstairs.
“I, ww-oo-nnn’-tt d-do i-i-t a-ag-gain. I-i, a-am s-ss-sor-rry.”
“You are such a crazy girl, sweetie,” Mom shakes her head. “Oh no, we have to warm you up slowly.” Mom pulls me back as soon as she realizes I am about to hug the heater when we get upstairs.
“Bu-bu-t I a-am f-ff-fr-frezz-in.”
“I know, but warming yourself quickly is dangerous. Let’s get these clothes off you,” she says and peels off the wet layers one by one.
I thought I was prepared: I had on a long sleeve t-shirt, a sweater, a wool jacket, and a parka; three pairs of gloves, (all in my pocket now since one by one they became super wet and useless), two pairs of trousers, two pairs of socks, one knitted by my mom, and a pair of boots. Everything is wet now. I feel like an icicle preserved in sheets of ice.
“You could have lost a toe or a finger. What do we do with you?” Mom complains as she warms my toes. Now, that the layers of socks have come off, my toes look like miniature carrots but in the color of beets.
“You should see your face,” Mom says when she realizes I am staring at my toes.
“Here, drink this sweetie.” My grandma has brought me some hot water.
Grandma has made it upstairs and is doing her best to keep calm. She is used to us kids being crazy. Whenever there is a soccer match on TV, we drive her insane by our screaming and jumping up and down. She worries that people might think we are murdering someone here.
“Slowly, very slowly,” Mom says as she holds the cup for me. My fingers are too numb to grip the handle.
“I don’t understand why they close the schools when you guys obviously have no problem with the snow,” Mom complains. She gets up and gathers my wet clothing off the floor. She has covered me with a warm blanket and leaves to get more towels and warm clothes.
“Sorry, Mom. I won’t do this again,” I say when she is back. My teeth have finally stopped chattering.
“I have to see it to believe it,” she whispers.
Mom is right. We go through the same episode the day after and the remaining days of the week. The schools are closed for an entire week and at thirteen, I love the snow too much to let that go to waste.
“This one should have been born a boy!” is what most people say about me.
“Makes no difference, boys and girls are the same. It is what the kid is made of. Mine is shaytoon!” Mom says pointing at me, meaning I’m super active. “Kids have to be shaytoon, it is natural. Otherwise, they are not healthy.”
The sound of the main character climbing the stairs brings me back to the movie, which has become more interesting now that I have realized it includes not only parts of the director’s own story but also has bits and pieces of mine.
The camera pans and I see more pictures on the walls featuring my mom. The women, Mrs. J., Mrs. F. (Bahaman’s mother), and my mom are sitting next to one another, posing for the camera in Mrs. J’s yard; she’s the one with an amazing green thumb. All three women are in long plaid skirts and embroidered tops, the fashion of the day. Their outfits are identical – something they did occasionally for fun and to celebrate their close friendship. I have a similar photo at home that must have been taken on the same day.
“Let’s go. The car is here,” Dad announces as he gets up with the sound of the doorbell. He is wearing his brown suit. As always he looks clean cut and tidy. Dad always looks as if he is going to an important meeting. I suppose this is because of his years in the Army.
“Come,” I call to the appliqué puppy on my skirt as I pull on his leash.
I love my skirt. It is pink, has a puffy lace petticoat underneath, and a pair of detachable shoulder straps, which I can also wear in a crisscross form. A cute white and furry puppy appliqué is attached to the skirt and his leash, in form of a loose silver chain, saves me from boredom whenever we visit homes with only grownups.
Mom has a navy and gold two-piece suit on and is wearing a pair of matching navy stilettos. She picks up her purse, a beautiful navy clutch with a silver chain handle, from the living room tabletop. Mom is a fashion queen, always in stylish outfits and matching colors. Mom doesn’t wear much makeup. She doesn't need it; she is naturally gorgeous.
In a few minutes we are outside and the driver opens the car door for us. Whenever we go to Bahman’s parents’ house, Mr. F. comes to get us or sends their car for us. Dad doesn’t drive. He got discouraged when he failed the parking section of the driving test. He could have gone back and retaken the test but I think he didn’t want to face the possibility of failing again and bruising his ego. In Dad’s defense, driving tests in Iran are far more difficult than the ones in the States.
I climb into the car first and sit by the window, my favorite spot. Mom sits next to me, in the middle, and Dad gets in the car last. Mr. F. has one of those big American cars, a Cadillac I believe, which, unlike my uncle’s car, has a huge backseat in which I seem to drown. As soon as the driver closes the door behind Dad, Mr. F. pops his head up from the front seat, where he has been trying to hide, and attempts to surprise me. He does this every time, not realizing that I am on to him even if I am only six.
At their house, I have no one to play with. They have a daughter, Nazy, but she is several years older than me. Their younger son, Vafa, feels he is too old to play with me. So I sit next to the grownups on the big porch overlooking the beautiful garden and play with Lulu, the puppy on my skirt. It is a good thing I brought him along. Bahman is dressed in all black and, unlike me, seems to have lots of people to talk to. Dad and Mom ask him about his school. He is studying at University of Southern California. A while back, at one of the International Festivals, where one of Bahman’s films was playing I met a film instructor from San Francisco who remembered Bahman as his bright classmate.
This is my only memory of Bahman, though I have lots of memories of his parents, who were like family or perhaps even closer to me. I saw them at least once a week at our house or theirs. Mom consulted with Bahman's mom when it came to the decisions she needed to make on my behalf. Having raised a few kids, Mom trusted her friend with issues related to my upbringing.
“Do you want to go to the US to study?” Mom surprised me one day when I got back from school.
“What?” I thought I must have misheard her.
“Do you want to go to the U.S. to study there, I said,” she repeated.
“Why would I want to do that?” I am only thirteen, I thought.
“I hear it is a great place to study,” Mom said with excitement.
Like many Iranian parents, Bahman’s parents included, Mom was obsessed with education. She sent me to the best schools and registered me in extra curriculum classes. I had tutors, not because I needed them to catch up with my schoolwork but so that I could study advanced math and science. She wanted me to be the best, the best in everything, especially in my studies.
As a girl, I was even more encouraged to be highly educated “so you won’t have to depend on a man.” I heard that all through my childhood from grandma, my mom, and even my uncles – despite the fact that they were men themselves.
“Mrs. F. is sending her kids.” Mom meant the two youngest ones, Nazy and Vafa, since Bahman and the other boys were already in the U.S. “I wouldn’t be worried. You will be with them,” she added.
My mom, who complained if she didn’t see me for one day, wanted to send me to the United States, half a globe away, for the sake of having more scholastic opportunities.
"I can get into Tehran University, Mom."
Iran’s universities could not support the number of high school graduates who wanted a higher education. The ratio became even scarcer for great universities such as Tehran University, which admitted only a small percentage of students. Yet, I was sure I could get into Tehran University. I had been preparing myself all through my school years.
“They say it is a very good opportunity,” Mom said smiling, hoping for me to at least consider the idea.
"I’m not going to leave you. I would miss you too much."
“I would miss you too, but we are talking about your future.”
"Mom, I am not tanbal!” I was anything but an underachiever. I got on my soapbox again to remind her of my plans. “During the first year of school, I will study and work very hard so that my professors realize how good of an architect I can be. During the second year I will start working at one of my professor's architectural firms to get lots of experience - the most famous one, of course. After graduation, I will open my own firm. Oh, and I will also teach.”
“You can start a school, like Mrs. S.” Mom suggested with excitement. Mrs. S. had opened an elementary school in our neighborhood, something Mom would have loved to do.
“Oh, please Mom,” I rolled my eyes. “I am not interested in teaching elementary school. I am talking about university level.”
“Well, teaching is commendable, doesn’t matter what level, sweetie,”
“I will never leave Iran to get an education. That is what tanbal kids have to do. Besides, I love my country. I will not travel abroad, not even for pleasure, not until I have traveled and explored every city in my own country.”
“Honey, never say never! Life is full of surprises. I know that from experience,” she said. She dropped her head and stared at the not-so-fancy Persian carpet under her feet. The fancy ones she had left at my dad’s house.
Mom was right. Things didn’t go according to plans for either of us, nor did they for millions of Iranians like us, including the ones featured in the movie I am watching.
The war, a phenomenon I never could understand -- I expect the human race to be civilized enough to avoid wars, so my friends tell me that I live in la-la land -- was responsible for the first massive Persians exodus. That was about 1,400 years ago when the Persian Empire fell to the Arab invaders. Islam was one of the driving forces behind that war - that, and the conquest and the lure of the riches in Persia. Regardless of the reasons, the result was that a huge number of Persians had to flee their country to escape having to convert to the new religion, Islam in this case, and wished to remain Zoroastrian, the old religion in Persia, similar to Buddhism and among the first monotheistic religions, worshiping only one god.
It happened again, another exodus, in my own lifetime, when millions of Iranians left their motherland and took refuge in other parts of the world. First there was a revolution in 1979 and then a war in 1980. I wish we, the human race, would have evolved enough to do without wars by now. In reality our advanced technology has made wars even deadlier, and the fighting guilt-free since it is now possible to destroy a whole town with the push of a button and not even have to witness the destruction and human casualty left behind.
The Iran-Iraq war (1980 – 1988) resulted in over a million causalities. Many Iranians, especially the ones with young boys, left Iran for fear of losing their sons - boys were drafted at eighteen though many self-registered even before reaching eighteen in the hope of pushing the invading Iraqi army out of Iran’s borders. Iraq had foolishly assumed that Iran would fall quickly since the revolution had disfranchised the army. While the young people in Iran paid for the war with their precious lives, many young people who had left Iran and would be considered fortunate felt guilty. The adults, many of our parents, as the movie is reminding me, were handed a life sentence of being apart from their children - unusual in the Iranian culture where multi-generation homes were a norm during my childhood. In reality we all paid a heavy price for the war.
“Are you okay, Mom? We heard a bomb fell near the neighborhood!” I shout into the receiver, hoping for the connection to stay alive long enough for me to hear her reply.
The war had begun with Saddam Hussein attacking the neighboring provinces in the south of Iran. Then Saddam, frustrated by not achieving the quick win he had expected, decided to bomb Tehran, the capital of Iran – something he could not have done without the intelligence offered to him by the United States and other oil-hungry governments – Tehran is very far from the Iraqi border, close to 900 miles.
“We-ar-e o-k-e-y. Stu-dy, d-o-n’t come b-a-ck. St-ay there!” I hear Mom yelling over the bad connection.
Years later, after the war had ended I found out that in fact a bomb had landed very close and broken a few windows in our house. Mom never delivered bad news to someone far away.
“I miss you, Mom. I am worried for you. I want to come home. Are you sure you are okay?”
For several years traveling out of Iran was near impossible. Even if someone was able to leave Iran, coming to the States was not an option. No visas, or very a few, were issued to Iranians by American Embassies around the world. No matter how much she desired, Mom was not able to come visit me. I could go to Iran myself but I was on a student visa and we, all Iranian students, were afraid that the United States might revoke our visas, even while we were here. I knew of someone, a senior in University, who could not come back after taking an architecture course in Italy, offered by his university. He ended up in Switzerland, where he had to repeat three years towards his degree since the Swiss didn’t accept his American education. If I left the States to go home being able to leave Iran would be near impossible but returning to the U.S. would be a miracle.
“I am fi-ne. Stay the-re. Do-n’t come. Stu-dy, d-o-n’t come b-a-ck. St-ay there,” Mom keeps shouting, wanting to make sure I heard her.
Everything happened in a flash, the kind you see in the movies when someone is about to have an accident and their entire life passes in front of their eyes. The last 30-some years of my life, from the time I left Iran for the States in December 1976 until now, the years that were supposed to be the best, went by really quickly, and feel like a dream to me, not a sweet one, but the kind in which waking up, you feel lost, sad, and frightened.
I came to the States during the Shah’s regime, a few years after Mom had suggested I come here with Nazy and Vafa, Bahman’s youngest siblings, and before the Iranian Revolution of 1979. During the first couple of years in the States, we were called “Persians”. As Persian girls, we were exotic, princess-like, and mysterious. As boys, we were handsome, charming, and total Don Juans. We were the life of the party, the gracious hosts, and the ones who raced to pay the restaurant bills for everyone else. In short we were generous, polite, hospitable, trustworthy, and quite desirable as friends, lovers, and co-workers.
Then all of a sudden we became “I-rain-ians”: ugly, mean, suspicious, and backward. The world we knew changed as the hostage crisis turned us all into terrorists overnight. It was as if someone had hit us on the head with a huge hammer. Even close friends started treating us differently. Everyone had questions about what was happening in Iran - questions we had no answers for. I shivered every night as Ted Koppel announced “America Held Hostage” followed by the number of days the hostages were being held. “Day 274. Day 356. Day 413.” The nightmare seemed never-ending.
In the States there was serious talk about sending all Iranians to concentration camps. The Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), started to review all of our records and visited many of us at our homes or schools. Only a while ago we Iranians were given four-year multiple entry visas to come and go as we pleased. Then all of a sudden we “I-rain-ians” were getting deported over the smallest issues. In some parts of the country things got so bad that many Iranian students, even the ones who passed the INS review process, were forced to stop their education and leave. They went back despite the fact that Iran was at war. Some Iranians like my friend, Ali, a PhD candidate at University of Texas, left and sadly became one of the casualties of the Iran-Iraq war. When he called me to say goodbye, right before leaving the United States, he was afraid for his family’s safety here. They were being harassed routinely.
In fear of harassment, many Iranians changed their names, some changed their religions, and some pretended to be Greek, Italian, Turkish or whatever else they could pass for. We got our share of unfriendly attitudes even in California where people were generally open-minded.
“Hello?” I say as I pick up the phone.
“Hello. Are you I-rain-ian?” a rough voice says.
“Yes, I am Iranian. Who is this?” I say with pride. No matter what the circumstances and how much harassment we faced, some of us refused to change our identity.
“I am a retired army officer. I got your name and number from the University,” he explains in a calm voice and I think to myself that he might have an Iranian friend searching for other Iranians. Times were tough so it was natural for us to want to stick together.
“I have been waiting for this day for a long time. They are free now.” He is talking about the hostages. I know, I have been following the news. Thank god the Islamic Republic set them free last night. They are out of Iran as we speak. I couldn’t be happier.
“I have been waiting for them, our heroes, to leave Iran,” he continues and I notice that his tone is changing.
“Yes, I--”
“I know where you live,” he says in an angry voice as he cuts me off. “I am coming over right now to kill you. I have a gun,” he says in an even angrier voice before hanging up.
I pause for a second before setting the phone down. For some reason I am not afraid. I can’t see how this guy could be serious. I am only a student. I have nothing to do with the politics in my country. I was here in the States when it all started. I shrug my shoulders and go back to my homework waiting on the desk.
It is around ten o’clock at night. My husband is at the library writing a paper. My two-year old son is sleeping in his room. We are alone in our little apartment, part of the U.C. Berkeley Student Housing.
“You should have called the police” is what everyone says after hearing this story, to which I only shrug. Honestly, that idea didn’t even cross my mind. I was young and stupid then. I took the guy and his call lightly. Looking back, I wonder if the police would have even responded to my call. Would they have come to my rescue? I was “I-rain-ian” back then.
I keep surprising people because I don’t seem to act according to their logics and common sense. Mom taught me to listen to my own instincts, and not to what others say.
“If you listen to others you will never win because everyone has a different idea. You can never please them all so just listen to your own heart and do as you wish” is what Mom used to say.
I always wanted to do just that, live as I wished, according to my dreams and plans. I wanted to finish my education, go home, be a famous architect, design a line of clothing, teach at Tehran University, start a non-profit and help kids less fortunate than me, and also tour every village of my beautiful ancient county. But life was full of surprises, as Mom had said. Nothing went according to plan for me, nor did it for Mom. It was not part of Mom’s plan to raise me alone in a small house without Dad’s help. And it was certainly not her plan to be away from me for decades. Mom tried to be with me, once traveling between the two countries was possible again. Though difficult and expensive, she came to visit me a few times. And when Mom became too fragile to travel, I started to go back to Iran to visit her – at least once a year – for over a decade. Watching the movie I now regret not visiting Mrs. F. while I was in Iran. In my defense, my trips lasted only two weeks, which I mostly spent with my Mom.
On the TV screen, the main character is visiting his mother. I am sure the movie is shot at Bahaman’s childhood house as I recognize the architecture despite the facelifts the building has had throughout all these years. I wish they would take the camera to the porch so I can be certain. Then the movie takes a sad turn as I learn that the mother has Alzheimer's. My heart aches. I wish I had not lost touch with Bahman’s family. I hope this part of the movie is not autobiographical and Mrs. F. is not sick. The last time I saw her was at my wedding some thirty years ago. The three of them, Mrs. F., Mrs. J., and Mom were sitting together just like the old days when they posed for pictures except they all looked old now.
“Be grateful for your youth. Time passes quickly and you will lose what you have now, especially if you don’t take good care of yourself,” Mom used to say. “I never thought I would look like this,” she would add.
I can’t take this movie anymore. I get up and go to the kitchen, pour myself another cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table, and start sipping the hot liquid.
I remember my mother’s old age – though she was not that old – only broken. Anyone in her place would have fallen apart. She was alone, all by herself, in a country that had changed, with her gullible personality and just about everyone taking advantage of her. I break down and cry.
“It is my fault, I should not have left her,” I hear my Dad. It has been a long time since he has visited me.
“Hi Dad, you want some tea?” I say as I wipe my eyes. “It has been a while. Mom visits me all the time. Why haven’t you visited?” is what I want to say but I am afraid he might not want to answer and would disappear instead.
“I am the one who ruined our lives,” he says as he shifts his weight while leaning against the walking stick he had started using a couple of years after he left us. His head, bonier than ever, seems too heavy for his neck. I wish he would sit down.
I want to agree with Dad but I don't have the heart. He looks even more fragile than the last time I saw him. That was many years ago, when I had visited Iran and traveled to the north, where he had moved because of his asthma. It is humid in the north, by the Caspian Sea, and his doctor had suggested the weather there would agree with his asthma better. She was there too, his second wife. They lived in an apartment a few floors up. Knowing my dad and how he liked to be outdoors, I thought with his asthma and bad back the stairs would be limiting for him. Years later, after Dad had passed away, I finally realized that the wife had planned it that way so Dad would be cut off from the outside and become completely dependent on her. But at least they had a beautiful view from their windows. When I was visiting I could hear the Caspian Sea in the distance just like when I was a kid and vacationed at the north.
The smell of the sea fills the car and I cry "the sea" as I jump up and down in my seat.
"You want me to stop at the beach first?" The driver asks as he looks at me in the rearview mirror and smiles.
“Yes!” I want to scream.
I am in love with the sea. I am beside myself whenever I am here. The smell reminds me of something familiar, I never know exactly what. It is as if an ancient memory fills me and lifts my soul with every breath I take when I am around the sea, the Caspian Sea in particular.
"It takes four grownups to keep this child in shallow water," Mom says, worrying about me drowning.
What Mom doesn't know, and somehow I have never told her, is that I feel completely safe, there in the depths of the sea.
"Come, come closer, come," the sea beckons me whenever I am there. I hear her and I want to go to her. It is as if I am under her spell.
Every summer when we go to the Caspian Sea, I feel I am going home, or better yet, going to meet my lover, even though at seven years old I am too young to understand what it means to have a lover. The grownups try to watch me like hawks but I am small, slick, and can disappear into the water easily. I have come close to drowning a few times and yet I am never afraid. I always seem to come up when I really need to, or is it that the sea releases me when she feels I have been under the water for too long?
"No, drive us to Shah-Savaar as planned,” Dad says. “We are tired. Come for us tomorrow afternoon and then we will go to the sea." He turns toward me with a smile.
Dad is strict when it comes to schedules and plans.
"We won't be able to swim today anyway, even if we stopped now. Your swimming suit is packed in the big suitcase,” Mom explains with a smile as she holds my hand.
Mom understands me. She has the same blood. She knows all about the desire for spontaneity that is second nature to me and is responsible for the surge of excitement that runs through my veins at times like this. She understands that at these moments, when I want to go to the sea, nothing matters except the urge to do what I want to do. We are like that, all my family; we are too free-spirited I am told.
At our citrus orchard in Shah-Savaar the first thing Mom does is to take my swimsuit out of the suitcase. I snatch it from her hands, giggling, wear it, and go outside to visit with our gardener’s family. They have a couple kids younger than me and live in a cottage on the other side of the orchard. In their living room, on the shelf, I see the dolls that I have sent with dad over the years. There are five or six of them standing in a row. For a second I am sad, I don’t have a doll at this point. Then I remind myself that I chose to send them to Mehri, our gardener’s daughter. I volunteered gladly, as I usually do, as soon as Dad had asked if I wanted to send anything to the family. Besides, I already know how those dolls are built, which explains the broken arms on a couple of them and the miss-matched eyes, one open and one closed, on some other ones.
What I do with most of my toys is break them apart. Every new toy, except the ones with no moving parts, lasts only a day or two in my hands before it is dismantled. I don’t set out to break them; I just want to know how they work. With the dolls, I pulled on the arms until I discovered the thick rubber that holds the arms together and yet allows them to move independently. With the toy cars, the wheels had to come off for me to learn about the axle and how it holds the wheels together.
After leaving the gardener’s house, I play with the dog, that I have named Felix after my favorite cartoon character, a black mischievous cat. I am called inside when it gets dark. Despite the thick layer of smelly ointment Mom has spread all over me in the hopes of repelling bugs I am covered in mosquito bites.
“It itches all over,” I complain as I scratch myself like a mad dog.
"You should have worn something over that swimming suite,” Mom says. “You know how much they love your blood. You have sweet blood."
No one else ever gets bitten as much as I do. They all come for me, as if one of them rated my blood with five stars and advertised it to all the other bugs.
“She had done so much for me. I should have not listened to my sister and her children.” Dad's voice brings me back to the kitchen. “Your mom was an amazing woman,” he continues.
“Learn from your dad,” Mom used to tell me. “He is very disciplined, takes good care of himself, and has the strongest will power.” Ironic how they both had so much love and respect for one another.
Mom was right. Dad quit smoking after forty years cold turkey, by throwing the pack in the trash as he left his doctor’s office, after the doctor suggested that smoking might be bad for him. He never smoked again. Dad also exercised every morning, ate properly and followed his doctor’s advice religiously. I just wish he would have taken as good of a care, or close to it, as of the woman who gave him everything.
My heart aches. Regardless of what Dad did or didn’t do, I feel responsible for what Mom went through. I left her too. I should not have abandoned her.
“She had done so much for me. I should have stayed with her,” I whisper.
Dad sits next to me, close enough for me to smell his aftershave, the smell that lingered in the house every day after he left. After the divorce, I missed that smell.
I pick up my head and look at Dad sitting next to me, holding his boney head in his hands.
“I would have stayed. I wanted to,” I whisper.
“But you fell in love and left Iran, remember?”
I am reminded that Mom was the only one who supported me when I fell in love. She believed in me, my choice, and thought I was mature enough to make my own decisions. Everyone else, including Dad, thought I had lost my mind and tried hard to stop me.
“I did leave but I was going to go back. We were all planning to go back – all the students,” I say, sobbing, as I get up and leave the kitchen. I thought I had forgiven Dad but realize now that I am still upset with him for siding with my birthparents instead of with Mom.
I take refuge on the gray sofa in the living room. The movie is still running. The main character is talking to his mother’s caregiver.
“Bahman came back to Iran. So did your cousin. They kept their word.” I think I hear Dad talking but when I pick my head up he is sitting silently across from me on the gray love seat with his head held in his hands.
I remember leaving Iran. At Mehrabad airport, I hugged Mom and promised to come back with my doctorate degree, something I knew would make her proud and happy. That was what we all were going to do - come to the States, study, then go back to Iran where great jobs and happy lives were awaiting us. At least that is what many of us believed at the time. Most of us didn’t know or chose to be ignorant about the issues that later brought The Shah’s power to an end. For most of us studying in the United States the future looked bright. Back then Iran was a great place for making money if you were educated.
“Bahman made great movies after finishing his education and coming home,” Dad says as he watches the screen. Now showing the main character sitting next to his mom.
I wonder if Dad realizes the movie he is watching is about Bahman’s own family and ours.
“At least he got a taste of working in his own country” I tell myself.
“Life is full of surprises,” Mom’s voice echoes in my head and I am reminded that Bahman’s movies were banned by the new government after the revolution, even though they weren’t pro Shah or against the revolution.
“It happens every generation or two. It happened to us too, in the form of the 1953 coup d'état,” Dad says, reminding me that they, Mom, Dad, and others who appear to me at times, seem to all have the ability to read minds.
Dad is right. In fact the 1979 revolution is the direct result of that coup d'état. Every time I hear that we, the United States, created the first democracy in the region, meaning Iraq, I want to shriek and scream – in fact the United States snuffed out the first democracy in the region some fifty years ago when they ended the populist and secular government of Dr. Mossadegh with a coup d'état engineered and executed by the CIA, and then brought The Shah back to Iran. People have a short memory when it comes to history.
Democracy, as we have witnessed lately with the events that followed Egypt’s uprising and the Arab Spring, is contagious. I can’t help wondering what would have happened if Iran’s democracy had flourished instead of being destroyed by the CIA? Would there even be a reason for being concerned about the Middle East, Afghanistan, Pakistan, etc.? Or would other nations have followed in Iran’s footsteps and defused the tension in the region, which would mean not having to hear about the Middle East every time we turned on the news?
“Honey, what’s done is done. You can’t change the past. Stop torturing yourself.”
She is back. My beautiful mother is here. She is wearing her green lace suit. Her hair is cut in a fashion that highlights its natural tamed waves. Her smile lights up the living room.
“I wanted to come back. I wanted to spend all those years with you instead. You know that, right?” Tears are running down my cheek.
“Of course, sweetie” she says.
“She is nothing but heart, so sensitive. You should know that,” Mom continues, turning to dad who seems astonished by Mom’s present.
Dad looks at Mom with sad eyes. The soft-natured woman turns into an angry lioness when it comes to defending or protecting me, even from Dad.
My heart aches. My tears are flowing endlessly. This, leaving Mom alone for decades, was not how I wanted our lives to be. I wanted to take care of her when she needed me the most.
“Life is full of surprises,” Mom whispers. “Things go as planned and then...” she trails off...
“A revolution happens and you don’t see your daughter for years,” Dad adds. At that moment I realize how much he must have missed me too.
“I am not against the revolution” I am about to say since being against the revolution seems to be a crime but then I correct myself. In fact I don’t like revolutions in general. Revolutions to me are like surgeries, quick but painful. They may help the patient but they are also intrusive and create other issues. I prefer non-intrusive methods and gradual changes. I believe in mending tears without causing new ones.
I have suffered deeply on a personal level because of the revolution and the following eight years of war. My life changed and I eventually became an immigrant, even if I never saw myself as one. Most immigrants come here to the U.S. for a better life. They come to make more money, have better opportunities and live more comfortably. I didn’t – I had a comfortable life and would have had a ton of opportunities in my own country. More importantly, I could have stayed with my family and taken care of my mom. Instead I was uprooted, and she ended up alone and broken because of the revolution and the ensuing war. It is true I could have gone back, many students did. But I never thought the situation, living outside my country, would become permanent. I always thought I would go back next year, or the year after.
“But I never wanted you to return to Iran. I thought I had been clear about that,” Mom says in a commanding manner – one that I have seldom heard. I keep forgetting that they all can read minds.
“You were young and had your own life. You were studying. You were also raising a son and had a family,” Mom protests.
“But Mom, you gave up everything for me. I should have---”
“What I did, I did for me. I enjoyed raising you and then watching you become the person you are today. No child is brought to the world at their own request. Parents make a choice to have a kid. It is only fair that they be responsible for the kids’ wellbeing, success, and happiness. The child needs to be free with no responsibility. All she has to do is to respect the time, energy, and love that is offered to her and become a good person, a useful individual,” Mom continues.
This opinion, that the parents are entirely responsible for the child, is what I grew up with. Mom always made me feel good about being a kid but she also made it easy for me and everyone else to take her for granted.
“But what about you?” I cry.
“I never expected you to do things for me. You brought enough joy to my life to last me a lifetime,” she says in an confident voice.
But I am not quite satisfied. Someone had to take care of Mom. If not me then it should have been Dad. He could have stayed with her and with me instead of disappearing. I don’t understand why Dad acted so selfishly and made our home into someone else’s home. Even if I forgive him on my behalf, I can’t do that on Mom’s behalf
“Honey, I don’t need a lawyer. I am standing right here,” Mom says, rolling her eyes in a humors way.
“But she is right,” Dad says, tearing up. “I deserve that. I was the one who ruined it for all three of us. I am so sorry.” Dad used to cry whenever he came to visit Mom and me after the so-called divorce. He loved Mom but sure had a strange way of showing it.
“Yes, you ruined our lives, and did it by listening to your sister instead of your own heart. It was as if you were under some spell. You, Mr. Logic, seemed to have lost your mind.” Mom has never been so straight-forward with Dad. I am proud of her.
“Yet, I am also to blame. Every relationship has two sides. I should have played my cards right. I didn’t. I can make excuses and say I got upset and reacted to your stupidity but that won’t make it right.” Mom pauses and looks at both Dad and me before continuing. “I had a choice. I chose to run away and hoped for you to come after me as if you were my prince charming. But we were too old for fairytales. I should have fought for our lives instead of giving up and running away.” Mom is the logical one after all.
“I wish you would have done that,” Dad says as he wipes his eyes.
“It is too late for wishes. What’s done is done. We both made mistakes. But I don’t want our mistakes to affect this child.” Mom turns to me. I wonder how Mom can forget I am over fifty now.
“You are still my child, no matter how old you are,” she says smiling.
There is no difference between shouting or not talking all together – Mom still replies to me immediately. She is quick in reading my mind.
“And you, my sweet child,” she emphasizes the word “child.” “If you torture yourself with things that are not in your control, and even if they were it won’t matter since the past is not coming back, you have not learned anything from me.” Mom steps forward and holds my face in her kind hands while looking into my eyes.
“Life is full of surprises. The thing to do is to embrace the surprises and make the best out of them. The years you have wasted worrying about me are not coming back to you. You must understand that I never expected, nor wanted, you to worry about me.
“We, your dad and I, had many wonderful years. We had love and we had good lives – much better than what you can imagine. And to top it off we had you. What else could we have asked for? We were luckier than most people.”
I reach for a tissue to wipe my tears and once I do, they have both disappeared. I take a deep breath and smile. Even after death and as a spirit, my mother is the most positive person I know.
I hit the rewind button on the DVD player and get up for some more green tea. I want to watch the parts I have missed and see if I can find more pictures of my parents on the walls.
Notes
This is the fourth in a series of five books to come. If you have enjoyed reading this story, you can find additional information about this book and the future ones at mojdeh.com
Copyright by Mojdeh Marashi 2011
About The Author
Mojdeh Marashi is a writer, translator, artist, and designer whose work is deeply influenced by the ancient and modern history of Iran. Her stories merge the world of magical realism in Persian literature that she grew up reading, the reality of the world she lives in today, and the utopia she dreams about. She was born in Tehran, Iran and moved to U.S. in 1977.
She is the translator (from Persian, with Chad Sweeney) of The Selected Poems of H. E. Sayeh: The Art of Stepping Through Time (White Pine, 2011). Her fiction was published in the anthology Let Me Tell You Where I’ve Been: Women of the Iranian Diaspora (University of Arkansas, 2006).
She holds an MA in Interdisciplinary Arts as well an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She lives in Palo Alto, California.